


Of Blank Canvases and Blades of Words

by aimingarrows



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimingarrows/pseuds/aimingarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's never been able to deduce his own feelings, he just knows that he doesn't like it when she's with someone other than him.</p><p>Or...the three times Sherlock ruined Molly's relationships, and the one time she became his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stock Broker

Sherlock Holmes was not a happy man.

"Where is she?!" he hissed. He had been waiting in the morgue for over half an hour, he  _needed_ to see the body.

John watched his friend pace the room, "Calm down, Sherlock. You don't own her."

Sherlock ruffled his hair, impatient and exasperated. "But she's  _never_ late!"

"Sherlock it's her  _day off_! It was short notice! She could be in the middle of something right now!"

As soon as the words left John's mouth, the door to the morgue swung open, and inside rushed Molly Hooper.

Sherlock observed her as she ran to the other side of the room to grab her lab coat and dumped her bag on the stool next to the supply closet. She wasn't wearing her normal frumpy sweater with khaki trousers, but instead, a nice pair of jeans that hugged her legs quite fittingly, and a silk turquoise dress shirt that was tucked in to her jeans.

She looked…nice.

Her hair was down with slight curls at the end, and soon it was tied up into a ponytail.

"I'm sorry!" she breathed, "I'm sorry I'm late!"

John smiled warmly at her, "Oh it's no problem. Sorry to trouble you."

Sherlock felt a nudge at his side, and looked down to see John looking at him expectantly to greet the woman in front of them. He turned away and looked at Molly.

She looked back at him, rosy cheeks flushing slightly redder, and began to open her mouth. "Shall we get star –"

"Where have you been?"

Molly looked taken aback. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Where have you been? Why are you so late?"

Molly crossed her arms, "I think we both know where I was, Sherlock."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and raised a brow. "You're dressed more formally than usual, your hair is styled and you have minimal make up on while you usually never where make up when you're working. You're wearing heels, which are not suitable for working at the morgue or in a lab, and you have an empty snack wrapper in your bag which meant that you had a date tonight but then you got our call, so you grabbed something to eat on the way."

Molly gave a small sarcastic smile, "Yes, well done."

She turned around and buttoned up her lab coat before taking her phone out of her bag and leaving the room in the middle of dialing a number.

As Sherlock watched her leave, John was shaking his head.

"You really should be more appreciative."

Sherlock almost looked offended. "I am appreciative of her help."

John shook his head, "Well you certainly don't sound like it. She drops everything at the sound of your name and you don't even give her a thank you!"

"She doesn't have to come when I call her."

"No, Sherlock, she does," John replies wearily, "because if she doesn't then you wreck havoc and piss off everyone else and no one other than her can tolerate you. Maybe you should give her some consideration once in a while and let her live her life."

John pulled his coat of the coat hanger and twisted the door knob, "You check the body and get back to Lestrade. I'm going to Mary's."

Sherlock watched him, "But John, the case!"

"You'll have Lestrade, just let me have one night with my wife. I promised her."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. "Fine. If I need you I'll text you."

"Thank you," John whispered thankfully before leaving the morgue.

When the door finally swung shut, Sherlock felt alone. The room was cold and pure white with no life except him. He remembered when he died outside of this very building.

Molly had helped him fake his death. She housed him for weeks before he finally managed to coax Mycroft into letting him out of the country so he could deal with Moriarty's network himself.

His presence had hardened her.

She was no longer mousy Molly Hooper, who stuttered and blushed at every glance he would give her. There was still the occasional flush of the cheeks, but she no longer allowed him to bend her at his every whim.

And yet…she still comes.

She always comes.

"Sorry Sherlock, whose body did you need to see again?"

He snapped out of his thoughts and saw that Molly was now standing in front of him.

_Flushed face – was on the phone with her date. Make up now wiped off – date was postponed to a later date._

"Mr. Norris."

She nodded and scuffled past him before opening a compartment.

When she pulled out the body, Sherlock got right to work. Usually it was John who wrote the details down, but since he wasn't here Sherlock whipped out his phone and began to type in his observations.

Molly stayed on the other side of the room, unlocking the cabinet to the right of the sink and grabbing a stack of papers that needed to be filled out. After setting them on the table, she crossed the room to grab the newly arrived papers in the basket by the door.

If she was going to stay, then she might as well get started on paperwork.

She could have just left, but knowing Sherlock he was going to have to ask for some lab equipment that she needed to authorize so there was no point in leaving anyway.

After half an hour of silence, Sherlock, now sitting in his usual spot by the microscope, was analyzing the remains of debris left underneath the victims' fingernails.

Molly felt her neck cramping up from bending over a desk and filling out paper work nonstop.

There was a slight noise from the other side of the room, and Molly looked up to come face to face with the date she had called off.

He was a nice bloke. Slightly taller than Sherlock, hazel eyes, tousled chestnut hair and a bright smile. Molly had met him on the Tube when she was coming home from helping Sherlock on another case. His name was Matt, and he worked as a stock broker.

"Oh hello, Matt. What are you doing here?" She asked, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. His glance towards Sherlock did not go unnoticed.

"Just dropped by to give you some Chinese takeout. I thought you'd be hungry," he said, bringing up the plastic bag full of food to show her.

She smiled at him, "Oh, thank you so much," she peered into the bag, "how'd you know that was my favourite?"

He shrugged, "You were carrying this on the night we met."

Molly felt a wide smile break on her face. She honestly believed that this could work out.

Matt nodded to Sherlock behind her, "Who's he?"

Molly felt a bit of anxiety bubble in her stomach. "Oh, um –"

"Sherlock Holmes."

Matt furrowed his eyebrows, "The detective?"

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected.

"Oh!" Matt said as realization dawned onto his face. He walked over a stuck his hand out. "Nice to meet you."

Sherlock looked at the outstretched hand. "I wish I could say the same."

Molly face-palmed herself. "Matt, I think it's best if you go."

"No, Molls. I want to know why he has a problem with me," Matt said. Molly began pulling at his arm.

"I seriously think you should -"

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because you're a stock broker. You travel all over the world regularly and often meet exotic women, whom you have numerous affairs with. No don't try to deny it. The simple state of your dress and the way you noticed what Molly's favourite food was states that you spend much of your time on these trips looking for one night stands and do so by noticing things that a woman would find attractive. And I'm also absolutely certain that your wife wouldn't be very happy to hear about it."

Molly felt her heart sink. This was why she insisted that her boyfriends never visit the morgue.

Matt looked astonished. And not in a good way.

As Molly looked at him, she knew it was true. The way he held himself, shoulders sagged and defeated, light in eyes gone, mouth slightly agape. She knew it was over.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked smug. He had a small smile on his lips as he resumed looking back into his microscope.

Matt strode forward, fists beginning to clench. Molly placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked at her, almost sorry. "Just go."

He huffed, taking another quick glance at Sherlock. "He's the reason you cancelled our date, isn't he?"

Molly opened her mouth, but Matt already beat her to it. "I know he's why."

And then he was gone.

Molly was mad. She was so,  _so,_ irrevocably mad. This was not the first time that Sherlock had done this. He had ruined her relationships every time one of them came to visit her in the lab before the Fall. She just thought that maybe he had grown to respect her enough to let her be happy.

"Why can't you just let me be happy?" she whispered, too tired to argue. Oh, she was just so tired.

"You would have found out anyway," he replied surely back.

Sherlock adjusted the focus of the microscope, looking oblivious to the woman with tears now beginning to cloud her vision, but was fully aware of it.

He didn't understand. Why was she mad? Wasn't he just helping her find the right guy?

He always felt like the ones she chose were never good enough.

Not good enough. Not for her.

"But at least I would have found out  _on my own._ "

She gathered her things from around the room, hanging up her lab coat and putting away the piles of paper.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, looking at her in a genuinely confused manner.

"Out," she replied curtly, "I need to get away from you."

The door swung shut as she left, and suddenly the room felt very empty.

But Sherlock knew she'd come back.

She always came back.

* * *

**Alright so this will be four chapters :) Definitely a Sherlolly fic (but that's obvious). However I don't know if I should continue this or not, it depends if this is successful or not XD**

**So please give me your feedback, I'd love to know how I did!**

**Thank you for reading you lovely people!**

**Comment? :)**


	2. The Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wrecks havoc at the hospital and Molly meets a teacher. The ending was certainly not what either of them expected.

She didn't come back.

At least, not for a while.

Whenever Sherlock had shown up at the lab when he knew she was due to be working, she wasn't there. It took about five days of texting and insistence for her presence to find out from Mike Stamford that she had asked to change her hours.

Sherlock felt something when Mike had told him that. He felt a slight pang to his heart, but he didn't exactly know what it meant. He just knew that he didn't like it.

When he had asked Mike which hours Molly was now working, Mike said that Molly had specifically asked him not to tell Sherlock.

Needless to say, John experienced a pretty infuriated roommate that night.

He encountered a sulking Sherlock on the couch, completely still and silent until three am, before he decided to go and simultaneously conduct an experiment and play a horrid song on the violin.

John nearly ripped his hair out in frustration.

"What's gotten you like this, Sherlock?" John asked his flatmate once he'd settled down on the sofa once again.

Sherlock ruffled his hair and wriggled on the couch, tightening the grip on his robe around his body.

"Alright, I see how this is going to go," John said, "go ahead. Be childish. But that won't change whatever happened."

Sherlock gave a grunt in response.

John sighed deeply. "It's something with Molly, isn't it? Something happened after I left."

That got Sherlock stirring. He turned his head towards John and leered at him with his blue eyes, malice and annoyance clearly shining through.

"What happened?"

Sherlock huffed in response and sat up, his hair now sticking up on one side and errant curls going loose. He looked like a little boy who had just been woken up from his nap – robe hanging off one shoulder, eyes with dark circles and halfway open, and hair all tousled and wild.

John almost laughed at the image of a young Sherlock holding a teddy bear against him after a nap.

"She changed her hours and told Mike not to tell me when she was working," Sherlock sneered after a couple moments of silence.

John blinked. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock groaned, "She changed her –"

"No, no I got that," John interrupted, a smug smile now breaking widely on his face, "I just can't believe that you're upset over Molly refusing to help you."

"I am  _not,_ " Sherlock hissed.

The army doctor laughed heartily. "You are! You're feeling rejected!"

"I am not being  _rejected,_ she's the one being immature over this."

"Why would she be the immature one?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She's just mad that the man she was dating had numerous affairs and a wife."

John grimaced, "Oh Sherlock, tell me you didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Tell me you didn't embarrass her in front of her boyfriend."

"I don't see why she's mad about it."

John looked as if he was in pain. "She's mad about it because you  _embarrassed_ her and _ruined_ her relationship!"

Sherlock stood and walked over to sit in his black armchair by the fireplace. He grabbed his bow and began twiddling it in his hands. John swerved around to face him.

"I don't see how I can ruin something that was already ruined."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "You know for a genius, sometimes you're a real idiot."

He watched as his flatmate started to glare at him, and proceeded to do so until he was finally in the confinements of his room, but not without slamming the door in the process.

John laughed, Sherlock was so blind sometimes.

* * *

_Molly, I require your assistance ASAP. –SH_

_Molly, you're late again, come urgently. –SH_

_Molly, where are you? –SH_

_Are you purposely ignoring my messages? –SH_

_Why did you change your hours? –SH_

_Come back, everyone else is insufferable and refusing to give me access. –SH_

As Molly scrolled over her messages, she couldn't help but snort at Sherlock's obvious discomfort at her refusal to help. He hated to admit it, but she was the only one who was able to tolerate him. She always found comfort in the thought that in a way, he needed her.

It was probably the only thing that kept her going through the pain of knowing he'd never love her back.

She took a sip of her wine, stroking Toby whenever he started to whine at the lack of attention, and cracked open a book she'd been meaning to read.

As she read the words and paragraphs, she couldn't help but notice that her thoughts always drifted towards a certain consulting detective. His face would fill her mind, and she wondered what his curls felt like if she ran her hands through them.

As much as she hated it, she always had to compare the men she dated to him.

When she first met Matt, she compared his hair, his stature, his height and his eyes. And even now, with a new man in her life that she met a couple days ago, she compared him to Sherlock, too.

Stewart was lovely. Molly met him two days after the incident with Matt at the lab, when she was in the midst of arranging her new hours.

He was a teacher at an elementary school about a mile east of Central London, and they met when she was at Costa's getting her morning coffee.

The meeting was brief, but she liked him enough to accept his date the next night.

Like him, the date was lovely. The restaurant they went to was neither too fancy nor too cheap, but the food was amazing and just as affordable. Stewart certainly wasn't nearly as wealthy as Matt, but Molly was more than okay with that.

When he asked her what she did for a living, Molly was almost nervous to say that she sliced up corpses, but she told him anyway and he actually smiled and complimented her on her tough stomach, as he shies away from the sight of blood.

It was a beautiful evening, but the only thing that bothered her was Sherlock's incessant texting asking her where she was. She ignored the texts, but that didn't mean they stopped.

Molly wasn't used to it. She wasn't used to the way Sherlock kept insisting she be there, because he was always used to her being there no matter what.

She was still mad, because after helping him and practically saving his life, she thought that he'd extend some courtesy.

She doesn't know why he doesn't let her be happy when it's obvious she doesn't mean anything to him.

It's almost like he wanted her to be alone as long as he was.

The one time he had ever shown her a sliver of affection and remorse to hurting her was when he apologized at that disastrous Christmas party.

He always had a sharp tongue which pierced Molly every time he made a nasty remark. His words were like the blades of razors, who knew that a person's life could be ruined with just a couple words uttered out of someone's mouth?

She was just tired. Tired of being pushed down, tired of being embarrassed, tired of being a tool…

…tired of Sherlock altogether.

* * *

Molly pulled her coat closer towards her body as she approached the doors of St. Bart's, the wind chilled her to the bone and it didn't help that it had rained last night when it was approaching February.

She pushed the door open and was soon swept into a conversation with her friend, Melinda.

She looked absolutely horrible. Dark circles, messy hair and a tightly clenched jaw. The night shift didn't do her well. Molly started doing the early morning and evening shifts instead of the afternoon and graveyard.

"I swear to god Molly, I am this close to killing that man," she made a gesture with her fingers to emphasize her point.

"Wha –"

"Sherlock Holmes!" Melinda gasped, "He's been waiting at the hospital all day yesterday and pissing off everyone asking where you were! Kept following them around asking what time your shift was, you're lucky we like you enough that we didn't tell him!

"God, Molly! Fix whatever happened between the two of you or so help me god, everyone at this hospital might commit murder!" Melinda swerved around and faced the pathologist, "Molly, you're the only one that can handle him, so please, give him what he wants and keep him out of our way."

Melinda sighed and rubbed her eyes tiredly. She smiled at Molly softly before walking past her and towards the exit.

As she was about to leave, Melinda turned around, "Also, you might want to warn that new boyfriend of yours about Sherlock. I don't think he'd appreciate another man calling you 'his.'"

Molly was left slack-jawed.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing. He'd ignored John's previous text messages asking him where he was and continued to roam around the hospital.

After sulking in his room, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He needed Molly's help for most cases, and he was getting particularly  _bored_ conducting experiments without human body parts.

To the normal ear and person, they'd already be on the hills running. But not Molly. Never Molly.

Sherlock knew that he annoyed the majority of the hospital staff, but he needed Molly, so he was going to do anything and everything to get her to help him back.

He tried to ignore the fact that he really didn't need her help right now since he didn't have a current case.

He just didn't like the fact that she was ignoring him.

Sherlock was persistent at the prospect that he did nothing wrong.

After more than sixteen hours roaming around the hospital, he passed the pathology department, where he found that the door to the morgue was unlocked, and that there was a woman with long brown hair now inside it.

 _So she takes the early morning shift now,_ he thought grimly. He hated getting up early if there wasn't a case.

He strode inside, and saw Molly Hooper's eyes look up towards him.

"Hello Sherlock," she greeted calmly.

He wrinkled his nose as he watched her cross the room to grab some paperwork in order to prep for an autopsy.

He was about to open his mouth when she interrupted him.

"I'd appreciate it if you don't harass my colleagues."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I wouldn't have if you just replied to my texts."

Molly aligned the stack of papers on the table. "I didn't realize that it was compulsory."

Sherlock watched her as she pulled out a compartment. There was a pale man with open brown eyes lying on the slab. Died of old age.

He bit his lip and looked at her through his loose curl. She looked…happier than usual.

_No frumpy sweater or khaki trousers – trying to impress someone. No makeup – no date. Phone left on the desk – expecting a call or a text message._

So Molly Hooper had found herself yet another man.

And for some reason, Sherlock wasn't too happy with the idea.

When he had lived with her, she had refrained from dating or going out with friends, focusing much of her attention on him and keeping him out of the public eye. Sherlock can't exactly say that he didn't like the attention she was giving him.

When he had lived with her, there was no one. No one except them.

Sherlock saw nothing except the interior of Molly's flat. And no one would ever be inside it other than him and her.

He liked it that way, he realized.

He liked the silence that would encircle the flat when Molly settled in her usual seat by the television to read her book while he typed away on her laptop, he liked it when she always left a cup of tea or coffee brewing when he woke up, he liked it when she came back from the grocery store harboring his favorite jam and pastries.

He liked it when she paid attention to him.

When it was them, they weren't Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Molly Hooper, they were just Sherlock and Molly.

They weren't surrounded by the pale white fluorescent lights of the morgue and the lab, nor were they in the same room with cut up corpses and the stench of disinfectant. They were instead in a cozy home, with knick knacks (Molly's preference, not Sherlock's), elegant china and fluffy sofas. He'd even grown slightly fond of Toby, stroking the cat whenever he nuzzled into him.

There was no one else, except them.

And maybe that's why Sherlock doesn't want anyone else to come into their lives.

After those days, Sherlock didn't like the way she faded away, merging into the corner of the room, going off and gallivanting with others when she should be by his side.

It's the way it had always been even before John came along. Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, working side by side.

He doesn't know what it is, or what the pang in his heart has to do with it. He's never been able to deduce his own feelings, he just knows that he doesn't like it when she's with someone other than him.

He didn't like it when she introduced Jim from IT (that didn't work out very well for either of them), nor did he like it when she was late because of another man.

Because she always used to be there for him.

He inched closer towards her while she remained oblivious. She was too focused on inspecting the body to notice his closer presence.

"Molly," he breathed.

She squeaked and jolted in surprise, and found herself face to face with one Sherlock Holmes. His eyes were dark, and his voice was an octave lower than usual.

 _Can it get any deeper?_ She wondered.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" she asked tentatively.

"Why have you been ignoring me?"

"Uh…" she mumbled shakily, focus now wavering at his closing presence.

No, no she can't be manipulated by him again.

She pushed him away.

"Because I was mad at you!"

Sherlock looked confused, "Why?"

Molly groaned in frustration. "Because you always have to ruin my bloody relationships!"

"I do it to spare you the pain of finding out the truth!" Sherlock argued back.

Molly shook her head. "The truth hurts, Sherlock. That's why sometimes it's better if a person finds out willingly."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. He understood now.

The minutes that passed were painful.

"I'm," he drew out a breath, "I'm sorry."

For the second time that day, Molly was slack-jawed.

But then, as easily as it came, a smile replaced the shock on her features.

"That's all I've ever wanted, Sherlock. A meaningful apology," she said calmly.

A true grin spread on Sherlock's face.

Yes, things were getting back to normal. Just them working side by side. Like they were supposed to.

"So who's the unfortunate soul you're slicing up today?" he asked as he nodded towards the body.

Molly took a glance at her clipboard, "A Dean Rogers. Died of old age at 83. According to his medical records he was fairly healthy."

Sherlock tilted his head, "There's no excitement in that."

"Want to see if there's anything worth studying?" Molly asked as she prepared the scalpel.

"Might as well, I've been lacking on body parts as of late."

He came closer, now behind her back with his head leaning over her shoulder. Molly didn't miss the obvious detail of their closeness.

As she drew the scalpel across Mr. Rogers, she noticed the way Sherlock leaned forward, even more intrigued than he was before. His sharp eyes scanning the body with fervor.

She laughed at him, and he looked at her curiously. "What?"

She shrugged, a smile still set on her face. He smelled of books and wood. He was warm. "I still find it amusing how you find conducting experiments on body parts fun."

His blue eyes found hers, and they had a slight manic gleam in them. "What's the point in doing boring experiments?"

Her smile widened and her eyes quickly flickered towards his Cupid-bow lips.

As she turned around to focus on the body, she saw Stewart outside the doors to the morgue with a crest fallen face.

Her heart sank. She wondered what they must've looked like.

She pulled away from Sherlock, trying to ignore the lack of warmth she once felt, and ran after Stewart who had walked away.

Sherlock was let in the morgue, alone, wondering what was the meaning of what just transpired between them.

Things had changed between them when he went to live with her, it was just now that he realized he didn't know the extent of  _how much._

* * *

"Stewart!" Molly called out, lab coat billowing away behind her.

He turned around, eyes dark and sad, and a frown on his lips.

He didn't look mad, that was the worst part. He looked…hurt.

"Stewart it's not what it looks like," she grabbed ahold of his arm.

"Then what was it, Molly?" he asked. The flowers he held in his hand were now drooping towards the floor.

"I…it was…" Molly stuttered, she didn't know how to explain what exactly happened, mostly because she didn't understand herself.

"Is he Sherlock Holmes?" Stewart asked, and before Molly could reply, he continued, "Because if he is then maybe I should have listened to your colleagues."

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, hand now dropping to her side. She watched as Stewart glanced behind him.

"Everyone told me to be careful with you, because if I ever hurt you then someone named Sherlock Holmes would be coming after me. I wondered why I had to be careful, I now see that it's because you so obviously belong to him."

Molly's mouth gaped, "There's nothing going on between me and him, believe me, please."

Stewart shook his head, "No, you can't possibly be telling me that there's nothing going on between you two. You weren't the one who saw you both in there. You never look at me like that."

"Stewart, please…" she pleaded. Not another one, she couldn't lose another one.

He looked at her with a tilted head. Molly honestly thought that he looked sad.

"Look, Molls. I really like you. You're smart and you're beautiful, and I honestly thought that this could go somewhere, but I refuse to come second to someone else."

And with that, Stewart gave Molly the bouquet of roses, and left.

Just like Matt did.

And the thing was, that this was just a misunderstanding. That probably hurt the most.

This was her fault.

She'll always have feelings towards Sherlock, because hell will freeze over before they go away completely, but she honestly thought that the flame was finally dying down.

As it turns out, the universe seemed to want the flame shining brighter than ever.

Molly just hates waiting around for a guy that will never settle down.

She just doesn't know what to do anymore.

* * *

"… _but I refuse to come second to someone else."_

Sherlock broke away from the door, heart pumping wildly against his chest.

That…wasn't supposed to happen.

As he watched the man Molly was talking to leave the building, he slipped out of the room and walked down the corridor to the back exit.

He didn't know why he felt a sudden glee at knowing that Molly was now free of a relationship. It was certainly not the first time that someone had broken up with her because she put him above them.

But whatever was going on, whatever the reason his heart was pumping and his adrenaline racing, he wanted to find out.

He wanted to discover exactly  _why_ he felt what he did when he was with Molly Hooper.

That required some experiments.

* * *

**Of course things will change between our dearest Sherlock and Molly, especially since he hid away at her flat. So naturally, they became friends and became slightly closer.**

**This was way longer than expected! I didn't mean for this chapter to be this long!**

**Anyways thanks for reading this chapter and I hope you stay tuned for the next one!**

****Thank you for all of your lovely comments (and all the kudos'!) :) They are the reason and the motivation that keep me writing! So thank you!** **

**Comment? :)**


	3. The Journalist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock experiences a revelation, Molly goes on a date and finds the perfect man. Sherlock isn't too happy about it.

Sherlock didn’t see Molly for two weeks.

It’s not that he didn’t want to, it was just mostly because this was phase one of his _experiment._

He wanted to see how he felt once he distanced himself, as to clarify and maybe understand what exactly was going on.

So far what he had found out was that when his phone buzzed or ringed, his heart involuntarily leapt at the thought of maybe it was her calling him. Whenever he’d see another name lit up on the screen, even Sherlock couldn’t deny the slight frown that graced his face.

John on the other hand…well, he was freaked out.

They hadn’t had a case in those two weeks, and Sherlock being, well, Sherlock, was supposed to be ranting around the flat, whining, conducting experiments, playing the violin until ungodly hours in the morning, and most importantly…annoying John.

But he wasn’t. Nope. Sherlock Holmes just sat on the sofa staring at his phone which was sitting neatly on the coffee table amongst piles and piles of cluttered paper.

He hardly spoke as well, giving John grunts and a simple nod in the head in response to any questions posed towards him. John can’t exactly say that he didn’t like this new, quiet, _tamed_ Sherlock Holmes.

It just…unnerved him a bit.

He still ate, which was a good thing, because usually when Sherlock’s off in another world he forgets to eat and speak for days on end. John always worried for him when he slipped into those trances.

John was enjoying the break. Between hours at the clinic and newly uninterrupted times with Mary, he finally felt like he was having a well-deserved vacation.

That is until Sherlock had a complete mental breakdown.

Sometimes he thought that maybe he should move in with Mary full time instead of staying at Baker Street thrice a week to give his insane roommate some company.

At the sound of Sherlock’s grunts and moans, John ran from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen downstairs and up the stairs to see Sherlock kicking his foot repeatedly against the wall.

“What the hell are you doing?”

All he got for a response was another irritated growl and another kick at the wall.

“Sherlock, stop!” John warned, “You’re going to break your foot!”

The consulting detective drew out a long growl of frustration before finally pulling away from the wall and collapsing onto the sofa.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” John asked, obvious concern on his face.

“ _I don’t know!”_ Sherlock exclaimed loudly, throwing his hands up in the air for increased emphasis.

“Oh no,” John sat on the coffee table to face his sulking flatmate, “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s made you behave this way for the past two weeks.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes towards John, “I don’t have to tell you.”

John shrugged his shoulders, “You know how persistent I can be, Sherlock. Don’t test me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly before he let out a strong huff. “I’ve been…conducting an experiment.”

John took a glance around the room, “No, you haven’t. Your chemistry set has been in the cupboard for two weeks.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “it’s a different kind of experiment.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve been,” Sherlock actually looked torn between telling the truth or keeping it at bay, “trying to figure out my emotions.”

John took a double take at the disheveled looking man in front of him. “You? Trying to discover what you’re feeling? What on earth possessed you to do that? I know how much you like to detach yourself from your emotions.”

Sherlock bit his lip. Yes, he detached himself from emotions. Especially for cases, because doing so will help him _solve it quicker._ But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t case.

He’s learned the hard way that caring’s not an advantage.

But he’s also learned that in a way…caring can be a savior.

Because he faked his death solely for the reason that his friends could live, and that he would eventually get to see them again. He didn’t have to, he just wanted to _live_ because that meant seeing his friends again.

He came back for them.

He _fought_ for them.

And no one could say that he didn’t care.

“I,” he started, “I’ve been confused.”

“Confused as to what?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, racking through his mind for the right words to say. For once, he didn’t have the words come freely from his mouth.

“I’ve been feeling… _weird_ lately,” Sherlock said slowly.

“Go on.”

Sherlock swallowed deeply, “It’s like there are butterflies in my stomach. And –”

“Ah, I see,” John interrupted with a new shine in his eyes.

“See what?” Sherlock asked.

John pursed his lips and stared at his flatmate. Disheveled hair, wide blue eyes, slightly chapped lips, ruffled and wrinkled clothes. He certainly looked the opposite of how he usually does in his pristine black suits.

“Well?” Sherlock prompted.

“I think you’re beginning to develop feelings for a certain _pathologist,_ ” John smirked. He suppressed a laugh at Sherlock’s stunned face.

Despite Sherlock’s usual claims of his ignorance and lack of perception to detail, John was no stranger when it came to _love._ He’s certainly been with enough women to gain some inkling as to what was now happening to his flatmate.

It wasn’t so hard to piece together. Sherlock being more insistent of Molly’s presence, his increased chiding of her boyfriends, it was almost like he was _jealous_ that Molly moved on.

At least, she _looked_ like she moved on. It was no secret of the pathologist’s feelings towards the detective. Feelings take a long time to fade away.

John did have a slight suspicion as to why Sherlock had suddenly gained a new interest towards Molly. They used to work together even before he came along, he knew that much.

But he also knew that Sherlock hid away at Molly’s flat.

 _Bingo._ That’s when things started to change.

Sherlock, it seemed, had developed feelings towards the pathologist while in hiding.

Sherlock was just too blind to realize it.

Sometimes he wanted to slap that man.

John’s suspicion just rose when Sherlock ranted to him about Molly switching her hours and not telling him. He almost seemed _hurt._ John wanted to feel bad for him, he really did, but he was having too much of a fun time seeing the detective in distress at the fact that now _he_ was the one being ignored.

Then, of course, his nearly twenty-four hour wait at the hospital.

No one would wait _that long_ for someone who didn’t matter. Sherlock seemed to take Molly’s neglect in a not very mature way. Mike Stamford had rung him up and told him. John was at Mary’s house and he promised not to go off that time, so he couldn’t wrangle the detective (not like he would follow anyway).

No, no, Sherlock certainly seemed _more_ than affected by a Miss Molly Hooper.

He wondered what happened while Sherlock was staying with her.

They weren’t awkward together (albeit Sherlock’s more protective and jealous streak), so nothing intimate must have happened between them.

So, that only meant that Molly had _crept up_ on him.

“Wh-wha…” Sherlock stuttered. John let a smile creep on his face – it wasn’t everyday that Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words.

“Face it, Sherlock,” John crossed his arms, “you’ve developed _feelings_ for Molly. _Romantic_ feelings.”

Sherlock snarled, “Of course not!”

“Oh really?” John asked, “Tell me what you feel when you’re around her. Tell me what you felt when you found out she was in a relationship with a man _that wasn’t you.”_

Sherlock stuck up his nose, “I don’t have to tell you.”

“Fine,” John threw up his hands, “then you’ll never find the results to this experiment.”

“Alright!” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ll tell you.”

John gestured for him to start.

“When,” Sherlock started, feeling a slight spark of anxiety in his stomach, “when I saw her with another man, I felt… _mad._ It was like there was something eating away at my stomach. I didn’t like it. And when she changed her hours because she was mad at me, I felt hurt. And…and when I think it’s her calling, I get excited. I like being near her. I like the attention she gives me. And she keeps infiltrating my mind, and when I push her away she keeps coming back.”

After Sherlock’s rant, the detective had a frown on his face. “I don’t know what it means.”

John chuckled in glee, “Oh Sherlock, you can be so blind sometimes.”

“What?”

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, what you just described to me, your feelings, it sounds like a man in love.”

“What?” Sherlock looked perplexed. “I can’t be. I’ve always said sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side.”

John shook his head, smile wider than ever before, and stood up. He walked towards the door and paused before looking back towards his friend.

“Sentiment, not love,” John twisted the knob.

“Love is what kept you alive.”

* * *

 

She had not heard from him in two weeks.

It’s not like she didn’t expect too. Sherlock had bouts of appearances and disappearances. Sometimes, even before the Fall, he’d be at the lab for six days straight, and then disappear for three weeks.

Molly was used to it. But it’s not like it didn’t hurt.

She came back to the morgue after the semi-disastrous break up with Stewart, dazed, confused, in a haze.

Someone had broken up with her because of Sherlock…again.

She was getting tired of it.

Molly had expected to see Sherlock inspecting the body, but there was nothing but the chill of the air and the slight whirring of the heater.

It hurt. Molly almost thought they had a moment.

He had acted strangely, invading her personal space and whispering to her in a deep voice. Molly didn’t deny that her heart fluttered. They had laughed together, they had _talked._ He had _apologized._

She honestly thought that maybe there was something there. She had thought his pupils were dilated.

But that was impossible.

But then Stewart had to see.

 _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_ She scolded herself.

It was him. It was always him.

Molly felt like she was playing a losing game of cat and mouse, wherein she was the mouse that the cat had no interest in, yet was always used for their own purposes of entertainment.

Almost like how every other cat that came close to her was chased away.

It was almost as if the universe _wanted_ her to be in constant pain, in a continuous flurry of heartbreak and rejection for the amusement of one _extraordinary_ man. It was like she was never meant to be happy…and never meant to find the one who was right for her.

She sighed deeply and put on her last earring just in time as the doorbell rang.

Molly walked out into the hallway and strapped on her heels, then peered into the peephole and saw her date waiting patiently outside.

Justin. She had met him two days ago at the grocery store when he bumped into her and caused her to drop the glass milk bottle she was holding. He apologized profusely, turning beet red in embarrassment and even attempting to clean up the shards of glass with his own hands.

He cut himself, of course, but Molly offered to patch him up while he paid for the damaged milk bottle.

She got to know him while cleaning his wound in the parking lot (she kept bandages in her bag), and learned that he was a journalist for the paper, but he did the ‘international news’ section so that meant he had to travel sometimes.

He’d been to Peru, Milan, New York, all for the sake of journalism.

He was…nice. Well, more than nice. He was sweet and awkward, with a lanky body and messy brown hair and thick framed glasses. He actually stuttered when he asked her out for a date.

A date that she was about to embark on.

Molly unlocked the door and smiled in greeting, and Justin held out his arm and she took it gladly.

She hoped desperately that this one wouldn’t get messed up.

* * *

 

The restaurant he brought her to was nice. The lighting was dim and the aroma was intoxicating. Molly always loved Italian food.

He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down while they proceeded to order and wait for their meals.

It was about fifteen minutes into the date when Molly’s phone buzzed.

“Sorry,” she apologized sheepishly, but Justin had just smiled and told her that she should answer it because it might be important.

When Molly read the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ on the screen, she could feel her stomach drop.

She put the phone back in her bag.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Justin asked.

Molly shook her head. “No one important.”

But then after five more minutes, her phone rang again.

Justin laughed, “I seriously think you should answer it.”

She quirked a lip up, “Maybe you’re right.”

She opened up her bag and grabbed her phone, noticing that it was Sherlock was texted her again. She groaned inwardly. But she clicked on the messages and began to read them.

_I need to talk to you. –SH_

_Molly, please. –SH_

He sounded…desperate, Molly thought. There were no nasty remarks or incessant ordering, but a pleading request.

She _almost_ wanted to call him back.

But instead, she opted for a text message.

_Maybe tomorrow, Sherlock. I’m busy. –MH_

“All sorted?” Justin asked as the food arrived on the table.

“Yeah,” Molly replied, “all sorted.”

Then Sherlock bloody Holmes just had to appear.

* * *

 

“Molly,” he said curtly.

She looked dumb-founded, almost annoyed.

“Sherlock,” she hissed, “what are you doing here?”

He ignored the man watching them.

“I needed to talk to you.”

“And I said _tomorrow._ ”

“Can’t. Too urgent,” he replied smugly.

“Oh, it’s alright Molly,” the man sitting opposite her said, “he can join us if he wants.”

Sherlock smiled, “See? Your _date_ has no problem with it.”

He pulled up an unused chair from the neighbouring table and sat down. Molly didn’t miss the confused looks of the waiters and other customers.

“But I have a problem with it,” she whispered under her breath.

Sherlock took a look at both of them. There was that feeling in his stomach again (what did John call it? _Jealousy?_ ). Nope, he didn’t like this scenario one bit.

He scanned Molly’s date, looking for flaws and possible dark secrets.

But he came up with nothing.

This man was clean.

Journalist. Brought up in a good home. Has a younger sister. Good relationship with parents and family. Strong morals.

_Damn it._

“Sherlock,” Molly started, “this is Justin.”

As Justin started to reach for a handshake he stopped in his tracks and his green eyes became wider than saucers.

“Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes?”

The man in question nodded.

“Oh!” Justin smiled, “I’ve read so much about you in the papers! Always believed in you! I think what you do is amazing!”

 _God,_ Sherlock hated this man already.

Why did he have to be so _good?_ Better than the man that he will ever be.

“Thank you,” he said in reply.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Molly smile at the brown-haired man with a fondness in her eyes.

_Slightly dilated – attracted to him. Body angled towards him – interested in pursuing relationship._

He had lost.

* * *

 

Sherlock had to answer to Molly’s raging phone call that night, demanding that he answer how he knew where she was.

He replied by saying that he simply asked her friend, Melinda, because hacking into St. Bart’s computer data wasn’t very difficult.

He cut the phone call short when she started to ask him what he wanted to say to her that evening.

He couldn’t tell her, not anymore.

She no longer belonged to him.

Justin, the man who had stolen Molly away from him. He was everything that Sherlock wasn’t. Kind, loving, passionate. Sherlock had none of the things that Molly wanted.

But he wanted _her._

John had left him sitting gob-smacked on the sofa when he left, and it took a couple hours for the revelation to truly sink in.

He, Sherlock Holmes, was in love with Molly Hooper.

He was just too late.

Now, as he sat silently on the stool at Bart’s lab, he was trying so desperately to prevent his brain from drifting towards a certain unavailable pathologist.

And oh, how it hurt.

He now knows what Molly felt all these years.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” a voice rang out.

Sherlock looked up, and came face to face with Molly’s perfect man.

“I was just wondering if Molly was here?” Justin asked.

Sherlock frowned, “No, sorry. She doesn’t take the afternoon shift anymore, only the early morning and evening ones.”

“Oh,” Justin nodded, “okay. Well if you do see her, can you please tell her that this was from me?”

He pulled out a bouquet of white tulips from behind him – Molly’s favourite flowers.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said reluctantly, “I will.”

Justin nodded, “Thanks.”

As he turned to leave, Sherlock couldn’t help but call out.

“Please don’t hurt her.”

Justin left with a frown on his face.

* * *

 

The next day, Sherlock arrived at the lab and was confronted with a teary eyed Molly Hooper.

He felt his blood boil.

“He hurt you.”

She shook her head. “N-no. It’s just m-me being silly.”

Sherlock walked towards her and placed a hand on her shoulder. Seeing her cry sent a pang to his heart.

“Molly…”

“He s-said,” she choked out, “that it wasn’t going to work. I-I honestly thought he was a good guy.”

Oh, he was a good guy.

“Molly,” he said quietly, “what happened?”

“H-he said,” she hiccupped, “that h-he didn’t want to take someone who already belonged to someone else.”

Sherlock felt his jaw drop.

He tentatively wrung his hands around her and pulled her into a hug, and she stiffened in shock for a moment before finally relaxing.

This was his chance.

And this time he’s not going to let her go.

* * *

 

**So one chapter left! Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to prove his worth ;)**

**These chapters are always meant to be like 1,500 words, but they always turn out to be like 3,000. Like, what is this? But hey, longer is better, right? :D**

**I hope it was satisfactory and to your liking! Thank you for your comments/kudos'/bookmarks! They keep me going!**

**And oh! I keep forgetting:**

**This is my Tumblr – thereichenbachs.tumblr.com :)**

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**Comment? :)**


	4. The Consulting Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final page is turned, and Sherlock has someone to face with a revelation that could go both ways. This time...it's the consulting detective's turn.

 Winter had already melted into spring the next time Sherlock saw Molly again. London was in a haze of sweet and intoxicating air, with the usual bustle of cars now accompanied with the melody of the songbirds.

It was safe to say that Sherlock preferred winter over spring. The cold chill the air brought made his nose red and his cheeks rosy, and the white snow made his already pale skin almost seem translucent. But Sherlock liked being bundled up in his coat and scarf, and most crimes are usually committed in winter after the Christmas season. Even criminals like to enjoy their Christmas.

It was March, and although the air was still slightly nippy, the sun finally broke through the mass of dark clouds.

After Molly had insisted to be left alone the day after her break up with Justin, it was with a heavy heart the Sherlock parted.

He had texted her, asking her when he could be back in the lab for some experiments (just so he could have an excuse to see her again), and whenever he would get no reply he wondered when he had gotten so cowardly. He knew he was straightforward and brash, but it seems when he comprehended the revelation of his feelings, he began to retreat and hide away, afraid to face the woman he had manipulated for so long and afraid of messing up and not being the man he knew she deserved.

"When are you going to see her again?" John asks as he sits down opposite Sherlock at the kitchen table.

Sherlock looks up from his entwined hands. "I don't know."

"Come on, you finally know what you're feeling, and last I heard she was single. Hell, Sherlock, a guy broke up her because he thought she  _belonged_ to you. I can't believe I'm saying this but – man up!"

"Do you remember that case with Irene Adler?" Sherlock asked John after a couple beats of silence.

"I do."

"She lost because she fell in love. I don't want to lose, too."

John put down his fork and stared at Sherlock in the eye. "Yeah but what you're going to lose is so much greater if you don't try and grab the opportunity life has given you."

Sherlock peered at John through his eyelashes. "What will I lose?"

"Her."

* * *

Sherlock remembered telling himself that he was never going to let her go, that he was not going to let her slip past his fingers once again.

He had felt brave. He had felt strong.

But then she had ordered him to leave her alone, and didn't reply to any of his messages, and that strength dwindled until almost none was left.

The distance she initiated between the two of them created a thread that was about to be cut.

Sherlock felt like he was about to lose her, but he didn't know what to do to get her to fall in love with him again. There were only a handful of times in Sherlock's life when he could remember being confused.

And most of all…scared.

He was scared to show up on her front doorstep and say something that would result in a door slammed in his face, because sometimes he can't control what comes out of his mouth.

He was scared of messing things up.

He had done a lot of things wrong in his life. Things he can't apologize for. But he had wronged Molly Hooper most of all.

She was always there – from the beginning of his consulting detective days to the confrontation with Moriarty. She was like air, always there when needed, and she let him _breathe._

And he had done nothing but push her down until she couldn't get back up.

It made his heart hurt.

As he watched John clear up the dishes (his plate being left untouched), he pondered for a moment as to let destiny decide whether or not he and Molly should end up together, or take life into his own hands.

"John," Sherlock watched his friend turn around.

"Yeah?"

"How do I get her back?"

He was never one for destiny.

* * *

Molly turned a page in her book, sighing wistfully at the happy ending that her beloved characters received.

She wished she could have a happy ending.

Molly had honestly thought that Justin was a genuinely nice guy. He was funny, sweet, kind and caring. He was the kind of guy that Molly read in her romance novels. He didn't seem to be one to hurt a girl.

And yet, he did, all because he thought that she belonged to someone else.

And she had a slight inkling as to who he meant.

Sherlock was an amazing man. He was gifted with an outstanding set of looks and an even more outstanding set of intellect. He was direct and honest and open, though not in the conventional way.

But Sherlock wasn't kind.

He was anything but. Sure, he had his moments of cynical and sardonic humour, and he did give her a shoulder to lean on after Justin broke up with her. He cared for his friends and those he held dear.

He everything Justin was except kind, and Molly had suffered through enough ridicule in her life to settle with someone who didn't know the difference between constructive criticism and rudeness. He'd never settle for her anyway.

She remembered when she first laid her eyes on him. Young, fresh out of rehab and a new consultant with New Scotland Yard. His hair was still curly, although it was shorter, and his face was much less developed with his cheekbones less prominent as they are now.

She can still remember the vacant look in his eyes. He was young and inexperienced, although he had already tasted hardship amongst his privileged childhood. The look of a recovering drug addict.

But despite all that, despite the sneer and the scowl set firmly in his face and his very rude comments about her life as the very first things he said to her – he was still the most beautiful man that Molly had ever met.

It was haunting her now. Like a ghost in the shadows of her mind.

Sherlock wasn't passionate, he didn't like the typical romantic gestures that one would usually expect from a boyfriend, hell, he used  _body parts_ for experiments for god's sake.

They would have made quite a pair, him and her.

Molly often used to think that they were made for one another, given their professions and mutual interests in human anatomy, but that fantasy was quickly squashed down when she realized that he wasn't the type to get into a relationship.

Love is juvenile, after all.

But lately, after the Fall, sometimes she thinks she can see him glancing towards her out of the corner of his eye while he worked. And when the silence fell before them in the emptiness of the lab, he didn't leave her like he used to when John beckoned him to come home and have dinner because  _"for god's sake Sherlock, you need to eat!"_

Sherlock was a skinny thing, but Molly knew he ate sufficiently enough under John's care. Whenever Sherlock wasn't on a case, he'd actually snack on a piece of plain bread even though food wasn't allowed in the lab. But Molly never complained.

She didn't have much of a backbone back then.

But she began to grow one when Sherlock began to live with her. He was insufferable at first, lounging around whining and ranting about how Mycroft wasn't letting him deal with Moriarty's network himself, and sometimes not speaking for days on end – like a ghost with no voice. But he grew on her as she began to learn his habits.

He became nicer to her, after that.

Maybe that's part of the reason she feels bad about not answering Sherlock's text messages.

_Why does he care, anyway?_ She wondered, because he never used to.

She didn't intentionally ignore them, but she wanted to be left alone with her thoughts after Justin had informed her that she was already imprinted on someone else's heart.

" _There's a man for you out there, and it isn't me. I don't want to take someone who already belongs to someone else. Someone out there, he's maybe even closer than you think, has your name imprinted on his heart. So grab onto him and never let go."_

It didn't take Molly that long to figure out that he was talking about Sherlock.

She needed to  _think,_ because everything was nothing but a pile of jumbled up knots in her mind that needed sorting out.

Her heart and her mind were just worn out.

Toby was just starting to curl up next to her and nuzzle his furry head in her side when there was a knock at the door.

Molly stroked her cat before standing up, placing her now finished book on the coffee table and smoothed out the work clothes that she hadn't yet changed out of.

She didn't bother looking through the peephole.

So imagine her surprise when she saw Sherlock Holmes standing outside her apartment.

He hadn't been there since he 'came back to life.'

"Molly," he breathed, and she noticed that his voice sounded raspy.

"Look, Sherlock, if this is about me not answering your texts then I –"

"No, it's not about that," he stepped in and closed the door behind him, "It's about what I wanted to say to you that night at the restaurant."

"Oh," she said, "alright then. What were you going to tell me?"

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and ruffled his curls. "Molly, before I tell you, can you promise me that you'll keep calm?"

Molly arched a brow, "Okay."

Sherlock nodded, "Good, good. Well – oh here goes."

"Sherlock?"

"I love you."

The silence that followed was almost deafening.

"Wha-what?" Molly stuttered, backing into the wall behind her. Sherlock began approaching.

"Molly you promised to stay calm," Sherlock reminded her with wide, vulnerable blue eyes.

He looked…scared.

"That's because I didn't think you'd tell me you loved me!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock's face dropped as he grabbed ahold of her wrists and brought it up towards his chest. "Molly, please, believe me."

She pushed him away and ignored the dejected look that crossed his features. "Believe you?! Sherlock, all these years I was the one pining after  _you!_ And now you're telling me that you _love_ me?! You can't just do that!"

She started to walk away, but found Sherlock racing after her and grabbing hold of her arm. She spun into his chest.

She was confused. Oh, she was just so,  _so,_ confused.

"Let me go!"

"No!" Sherlock argued back.

"Why not?" she asked, tears now clouding her vision.

"Because I  _can't._ "

She collapsed into his chest and felt his arms envelope her in a hug as they sunk to the floor. He held her close enough that she could feel his increased heartbeat.

"After all this time," she whispered into his chest, "why now?"

She let her head rest against his body, feeling the rise and descent of his labored breathing.

"What happened?" she repeated.

Sherlock let his cheek rest against the top of her head, "You crept up on me."

He felt her shake his head, "I don't believe you."

His heart sank and his stomach dropped, and Sherlock swears that tears were now brimming in his eyes. He can't lose her, not again. He won't let anything or anyone take her away from him again.

"Look at me, Molly," he said, and she peered up, eyes red-rimmed and tired. He grabbed her hand in his and placed it against his chest. "What do you feel?"

Molly felt her mouth gape open, unsure of how to proceed. "I…I feel a rapid heartbeat."

He raised their intertwined hands and placed it against his cheek. "What do you see?"

Her breath hitched in her throat. "I see…dilated pupils."

"And what does that mean?"

She began to shake her head, "No, no," she murmured and pulled away from Sherlock's grasp. He felt cold. "You can't just do that! You can't just walk in here and tell me you love me and expect everything to be okay!"

She watched as his face began to fall leaving his lips slightly parted and his eyes darken in sorrow.

"I've spent so long hoping that maybe you'd love me back, and now that I've finally began to move on you come back and tell me that?! I'm not a blank canvas, Sherlock! You can't paint whatever you want on me!"

Sherlock frowned and watched as Molly began to scurry away from him. "Do you think you'll ever love me again?"

He felt like his world was shattered when she answered, "I don't know."

And then, in a sudden burst of bravery, he followed her and cupped her cheeks in his hands. "Answer me again after I do this."

Then his lips were on hers.

Molly often thought about what his lips would feel like and taste like. She imagined it would be soft and sweet, like the Cupid's bow that his lips were sculpted after.

But she was wrong.

His lips were soft, but the kiss wasn't sweet. It was urgent and fervent, surprisingly passionate and heart-stopping. She could tell that Sherlock wasn't an experienced kisser, but even Molly can't deny that she felt her heart melt.

He tasted of wood and new books, with a slight sweetness from his natural scent. It was intoxicating.

Molly on the other hand, well, Sherlock didn't expect what he did.

He imagined her lips to taste of disinfectant, of cleanliness from the hospital she worked at, but no, she tasted of cherries and strawberries with a slight hint of lemon. He liked it.

As their lips collided against one another's, Molly felt the flame burning stronger than ever.

When they pulled away, Sherlock rested his head against hers. "What about now?"

Molly smirked, "I'll tell you after you kiss me again."

This time, the kiss was sweet.

"I love you, too."

* * *

Sherlock loved as fiercely as he cared, and things changed that night at her flat. The spark was growing into an inferno, one that would take even the most treacherous of villains' days to burn out.

But it will never burn out.

It was something new, something  _magical._  This thing they had between them, stolen kisses in the lab and shared beds in the evening, it was something better than a fairytale.

But despite all that, things stayed as they were. Molly still gave Sherlock access to the lab, and they worked side by side until Molly's shift was over. Just like they always used to from the beginning.

Melinda nearly had a heart attack when she walked in on them kissing in the lab.

But it was alright,  _they_ were alright.

That's all that mattered.

He found that with her, his mind was sharper and he could think more clearly. In her presence, his heart beat faster and his palms began to sweat. She was the woman that _always_ counted.

He became…happy,  _truly happy,_ for the first time in his life.

As he reflected on meeting Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and John, Sherlock can finally say that he has a family he protects, and in turn, protects him.

Love was definitely not a disadvantage.

* * *

**This is the end of the story! The final chapter, here on this page.**

**I've loved this short journey that I got to share with all of you, and I hope to see you in the future if I come back with new Sherlolly fics!**

**I hope that it was to your satisfaction (in my opinion, it could have been better, but to each their own)!**

**Thank you so much for reading/commenting/kudos-ing/bookmarking, it means so much that people actually like my work :)**

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